The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike
by shedoc
Summary: How would YOU react if the soul behind your friend's eyes changed? character borrowed with permission
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Mrs Hudson**

Martha Hudson had seen it all in her time with Sherlock Holmes as her tenant: outlandish did not even remotely begin to describe the shenanigans that young man got up to in the course of a day. How she had managed to keep her hands from his throat and her broom from his backside was a matter between herself and her God. Fortunately for Mr Holmes he had first arrived with a fellow lodger who was courtesy and sanity itself, and moreover was more than capable to act as a go-between. Of course, his health was not the best to start with. The poor man was terribly broken in mind and body when he first stepped over the threshold; it had taken her some months of her very best cooking to bring him around.

In the meantime Mr Holmes had given her a run for her rent money. What with noxious chemicals, sudden fires, a sitting room that looked as if a paper mill had exploded within its walls, irregular eating habits – if indeed he could be persuaded to eat, comings and goings at all hours, street urchins invading her home without so much as a by-your-leave, target practice at all hours – _and_ at the most unsuitable of targets – a violin that should have played sublime airs and instead screeched like a cat in heat, Mr Holmes almost certainly skirted eviction more than once. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between maintaining a well run home and sanctuary or an asylum.

And so it was that when she opened her front door in order to set forth to secure the victuals needed to keep the Mad House of Baker Street running, she was not at all surprised to see her least troublesome tenant with his hand raised to knock upon the door that was no longer there. She skipped back with the agility born of years of practice at dodging the unexpected. Dr Watson pulled his hand back quickly, tucking it behind his back like a child caught with forbidden sweets.

"Dr Watson! Why on earth were you knocking?" Martha scolded, "What have you done to my house key?"

"I… fear I left it behind," the sheepish tone was precisely that of a little boy in trouble, "I am sorry to say that it quite slipped my mind. Are… you going out?"

"The pantry is bare, and if Mr Holmes is to have anything for his tea I must fetch it in. Up you go then… I expect him home soon," she said firmly, giving him a little smile and receiving a shy one in return. The poor doctor had been dragged out of his warm bed before she had even gotten up this morning, and it was no wonder he had forgotten his latch key.

He held the door for her, as mannerly as always, and saw her to the pavement before shutting the door securely. She adjusted her bonnet against the slight breeze and set off, pleased that the doctor would at least have a chance to recoup some of his lost rest before Mr Holmes came home again.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**The Intruder**

James Watson smirked as the door shut on the old lady. He'd always had a touch with the old dears… he could frequently get around his old mum with that self same smile and tone. John of course had been quite the inferior at such things – not that you could expect anything else from the last born twin. Little Johnny had never learned the art of lying his way out of the petty little spots of bother that the adults around them had trialled them with.

He had not intended to ever set foot in John's home… if such a poor place could even be called a home. However he had a small spot of bother that could not be resolved in his usual manner – it would take a man more used to … vigorous action. John had treasured his time in the army and had picked up several useful skills. He enjoyed putting them to the use of that Holmes fellow that he wrote of in _The Strand_, he could jolly well employ them for a much worthier cause.

He stepped up to the sitting room, setting of so many of the trite little adventures that John saw fit to bore the barely literate masses with. The place was even shabbier than he had imagined and the mess was well beyond the pale! How the mighty had fallen – John had always given himself airs over his tidy habits. James preferred his rooms to appear a little more lived in – though this was an appalling mess that even James wouldn't countenance.

He flung himself onto the settee and squirmed into a comfortable attitude, fishing for a cigarette and throwing the spent match in the direction of the hearth. It would be tedious to wait, but as he didn't like to send a wire ahead – terribly unsafe given the situation – he had no other choice. The clock chimed the half hour before there was a key in the door, which woke James from his doze. The front door slammed and feet pounded up the stairs with unseemly haste, the man below – for it was a male voice – bellowing at the top of his uncouth lungs:

"Watson! Are you home?"

James smirked and decided to have a little game with the man, after all his own sainted mother hadn't been able to tell her boys apart as they grew, and nor could any stranger to the family. It would be amusing to see how long the so-called 'sleuth' took to rumble to the fact that the man on his settee was not in fact his companion. The door burst open with such force it struck the wall, denting the wallpaper before vibrating back towards its frame. James reflected that the stories in _The Strand_ didn't say what a gangly scarecrow the chap was, nor how untidy and enervating his manner.

"Hallo Holmes," James forced the smoother accent that his little brother favoured, the traitor, and sat up properly. Holmes swept a look over him from top to boot tip and, in a series of movements so rapid as to appear fluid, pulled a gun from his pocket, cocking it and aiming it squarely between James eyes.

"You are not Watson," was the wholly unexpected reply. It usually took a little longer than this for the game to be up and James frowned, wondering how the man had managed to do what his own parents had not. John of course had always owned up to his name, James had found it easier to assume his brothers identity when trouble loomed.

"Holmes, point that thing elsewhere! Honestly man, this is no time for practical jokes!" he decided to maintain the identity, curious if he could shake the others belief in his declaration.

"John Watson does not play cards professionally, smoke that brand of tobacco, wear his hair that long or own a suit of that cut, colour or weight. Moreover, John Watson does not use his left shoulder to support his weight when shifting position from reclining to sitting, slouch in that manner or speak with the same degree of Scottish burr that you are trying to disguise," the statements were fired at him rapidly, the tone hard and inflexible. The deductions themselves weren't so astonishing – the man did share rooms with little Johnny and so would be used to seeing him gimp about lamely, reeking of whatever strong brand it was he'd settled on. James preferred a milder tobacco himself – his brothers taste was atrocious in this as in many other things.

"I am Watson," James insisted, standing up and spreading his arms in illustration, wondering as soon as the words left his mouth why he was bothering to continue with the charade. The glint in the scarecrows eyes, not to mention the way his knuckles whitened around the grip of the gun indicated that the charade was not fooling anyone.

"I do not know the purpose of this charade, but if he is hurt in any way you will wish that you had never been born. Now, for the first, last and only time, where is John Watson?" the voice held implacable will behind it, and James threw himself back onto the settee.

"I have no idea where John is," he replied sulkily, "I'm not my brother's keeper after all."

"Watson's brother is dead," the scarecrow riposted immediately, moving to keep James firmly under the sights of his gun. James was surprised at the words, and frowned. He had not expected the other man to catch the reference so quickly, but even if Watson had told him about their elder brother Andrew – the one who had drunk himself to death and almost ruined the family estate in the doing, the stupid sot – surely he had mentioned that he had another brother, one that was not a drunken disgrace. James had inherited when Andrew died, and had agreed to pay the last of his younger brother's university fees. He himself had finished reading Law some time ago and was already in practice. The legal profession had been less attractive than the card tables of late, as he could earn significantly more money for much less effort. Unfortunately, he'd run into some difficulties, hence this whole tedious trip to see his little brother. Given that his own dear brother was partly the root of this difficulty it was only fair that he see an end to the problem.

"Whatever lie it is that you are about to produce, I suggest you keep it to yourself. I will give you precisely an hour, and if Watson is not home by then you had best tell me what I want to know or it will go very hard with you," the scarecrow announced and sat very precisely in a chair opposite, the gun resting on his knee, still aimed at James. It was clear the insufferable idiot would not listen to reason and so James settled back, his arms folded and his best smirk on his face.

It was only fifteen minutes later that the key once more sounded loudly in the lock and the scarecrow once more snatched up the gun, pointing it firmly between James eyes.

"Watson?" his bellow was even more unnerving when in close proximity.

"Yes?" John's voice drifted back up the stairs. There was an instant of ridiculously sentimental relief on the scarecrow's face and then his face was once more its impassive mask.

"I need you!" the pest in front of James bellowed and they could both hear the sound of uneven footsteps hurrying up the stairs. The door opened quickly, though without further abusing the wallpaper or doorframe, and there he was, James' little brother, concern writ large on his face. He was still thin as a stick, browner than he should be and much too upright in his carriage. Concern changed rapidly to surprise and then annoyance.

"It's alright Holmes," John said in a resigned sort of tone, "This is James Watson, my older brother."

"Your older twin," James emphasised the last word pointedly, "Let us not forget the social niceties, brother. Or has living in London taught you to neglect them?"

He held his hand out for John's handshake and was very amused when his little brother stuck his hands in his pockets and crossed to stand beside his flatmate, much as a child would go to a protector. His protector had reluctantly pocketed the gun and was standing with his arms folded and a glare upon his face that was slightly intimidating.

It occurred to James that this might not be as easy as he'd first expected. Little Johnny had proved to be surprisingly cunning the last time they'd met, but with an ally that he trusted at hand it seemed they were about to play an all new game.

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Watson**

It is not every day that Sherlock Holmes bellows 'I need you' with a faint note of distress in his tone. Usually I hear those words directed at me with more than a faint tinge of ire, impatience or some combination of the two. I had taken the stairs much more quickly than my war wound appreciated, but I ignored the discomfort in order to reach his side as quickly as possible. All I could think was that one of the men we had left our respective beds this morning to hunt had instead traced us to Baker Street, resulting in some injury or distress to my dear friend.

I certainly did not expect to find Holmes holding my elder brother at gunpoint.

James had been born fifty three minutes before I, and never let me forget it. When Father died in fever bed and Andrew drank himself to death only a month later, it had been James that inherited what remained of the family estate. He had paid for me to complete my studies at University and then only a week after my graduation had cut me off without a penny, going so far as to inform me that I was dead to him. At the time I thought it was because his fiancée at the time, my brother had been engaged on more that one occasion I was shamed to say, had only recently mistaken me for James and greeted me a little more warmly than was strictly proper, despite my best efforts to enlighten her as to the mistake. I later learned that James had set that particular scene up carefully in order to be free to court someone else. That he could also deny any small claim that I may have made on his purse had no doubt contributed to his deception.

He had always been the more dishonest of the two of us and was a master at ensuring the blame for any transgression or mishap was not placed at his door. Holmes would have approved of his acting skills, as well as his ability to move through various levels of society with comfort. His stint as a magistrate had taught him that much and more besides. James had been declared dead some years ago, not long after my return from Afghanistan. His debts had fallen to me, forcing me to sell what was left of the estate to repay them. I had even received father's watch, the poor timepiece that had been battered so badly by my wretched eldest brother and then treated with such disdain by James. James had always been adamant that I would only receive the watch on his death, so its arrival had brought home to me that he truly may have died. Of course, he had not been dead, a situation that had led to me sending him away under the 'care' of Mycroft Holmes for his part in a conspiracy of murder and intrigue. That Mr Holmes the senior had been unable to keep James confined did not surprise me. My dear friend knew nothing of all this; I had certainly never contemplated discussing the events that had taken place during his 'hiatus' with him.

"It's alright Holmes," I said in a calm tone, realising from the look of my friend that he had thought the worst, "This is James Watson, my older brother."

It was apparent to me that Holmes nerves were badly shaken, something which James excelled at doing to others. Before my friend could reply James of course felt the need to correct me, as he had all through our childhood.

"Your older twin," my look alike emphasised the last word pointedly, "Let us not forget the social niceties, brother. Or has living in London taught you to neglect them?"

He held his hand out for my handshake and was visibly amused when I stuck my hands in my pockets and crossed to stand beside Holmes pointedly, quietly declaring where my loyalty stood now. Once I had been pleased to shake his hand and call him brother, now I saw the gesture for what it was, James attempting to manipulate others by showing his mastery of them. He had a most annoying habit of turning his hand so that yours was palm up as you shook with him, an attitude of supplication that sat poorly with me now. I had been my own man for so long at Baker Street that a return to James shadow was anathema to me.

"I found him lounging on the settee, claiming to be you," Holmes informed me tersely, "I could see through the deception at once, of course."

"Of course," I smiled, knowing how much it would irk James. He did so love to deceive others, but Holmes was the master of detection – lies shouted in his presence. Although we looked almost exactly alike the resemblance was strictly one of cosmetics now. The difference was in our character, something that pleased me immensely.

"I assume you told Mrs Hudson that you'd forgotten your key or something?" I asked my brother, shifting my weight onto my stronger leg, trying to ease the twinges that the run up the stairs had caused.

"Naturally," he smirked, "She never suspected a thing."

Holmes snorted and crossed to the mantle, extracting his pipe from the rack and some tobacco from the slipper. James watched this little routine – one that no longer struck me as odd – with a supercilious expression on his face that irked Holmes to no small degree. I found it a comforting point of normality that Holmes, despite this very odd and unwelcome intrusion into our lives, lit his pipe and leaned on the mantle as he so often did when regarding a particularly irritating client.

"What do you want, James?" I sighed, not wishing to prolong the spectacle. I had no doubt that James wanted something from me, though if it was money he would receive none. I was also sure that by the end of the interview I would be lowered in Holmes' estimation, as James had long held the trick of leading me to show my worst side to others.

"I've no intention of discussing family matters in front of strangers, John," the condescending tone was like nails on a slate.

"Holmes is no stranger, and I would not turn him out of his own rooms for anyone, not even royalty," I could do no less than my friend had for me – the King of Bohemia had been most displeased, but I treasured that memory as one of the defining moments of our friendship. Holmes made a little 'ha' under his breath, a pleased sound if ever I had heard one.

"Besides," I took heart from his presence, "I don't have a family. You yourself disowned me many years ago, and then," I had to raise my voice slightly to speak over his attempt at interruption, "You died, James. Must I remind you that I signed your death certificate myself? In this case I do not believe any claims to family privacy can be made. If you have come to consult me as a doctor, I will direct you to make an appointment at my surgery. If you are here to consult a detective, address your remarks to the one in the room. Do not, under any circumstances, believe that you are here as my brother: I have no kith nor kin in England."

It must be confessed that I took a small, mean amount of satisfaction in that statement. It was a reminder to us both of what had gone before and what was owed to whom. Holmes was watching me with some fascination, no doubt wondering when I had become such a cold-hearted and uncouth man. I could give James no quarter though, to do so would be to lose whatever battle of wills he was attempting to engage in.

"My poor John, the years have indeed been harsh with you," James sighed, mock sympathy lining his face. Holmes made an impatient movement, but my twin ignored him, "Do you not think I have regretted my words to you that fateful day – or our separation since? What was I supposed to think when I found my fiancée in your arms?"

"That your plan had finally come off and you could now legitimately break your engagement to the young woman and pursue another, at the same time ensuring I could make no further claims upon your purse whilst I set up in medical practice," I replied baldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him discomforted, "Yes, James. I found out about your little scheme. It did not seem worthwhile to confront you on the matter; certainly the girl was better off without you. Any regrets you might have had about our separation undoubtedly stem from the lack of a convenient person to hand whom you could blame any shortcomings upon."

"John! That is beyond the pale!" James protested, sinking dramatically onto the settee, "I have grieved over our estrangement for years. Had I not been forced into hiding I would have come to your side at once when you returned so shattered from abroad. It seemed that as the years passed you slowly created a life with which you were content, and only that stayed my hand from revealing my presence to you. Indeed, were the situation not so dire now I would never have risked…" his voice broke off with a choke and he buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with repressed emotion.

I looked at him with a heavy heart, regret and pity pulling at me so strongly that for a moment I could not find my voice. Estranged or not it was truly a hardship to see my brother sunk so low. I sucked in a deep breath with difficulty and then turned to my friend who continued to observe this sordid interlude from his place by the mantle.

"I'm sorry that you had to see this Holmes," I apologised, "It seems that my brother has never grown out of his need to twist and manipulate the emotions of those around him. Most unseemly for a grown man."

My friend barked in laughter, and again I felt a mean satisfaction as James jerked a tear free face from his hands upon the couch, anger and mortification clearly visible. I quirked a brow at him and pulled out my cigarette case, lighting a match and drawing in the steadying comfort of the tobacco. My nerves thanked me as I smoked in silence, waiting for my brother's next salvo. Holmes flung himself into his chair, still chuckling and garnering a dirty look from my unwelcome guest.

"How can you be so heartless to your only flesh and blood?" James snarled and I braced myself, knowing that his next sally would be dirty indeed, "You've changed, John. Mother would be so disappointed. You know she had always hoped that you would learn to love me as I do you."

As barbs went that one was thrown by a very skilful hand, one that penetrated all the way to my heart. However, I had long become inured to such jabs, though it could not be denied that even the passing of time had not lessened the sting. In the corner of my eye I saw my dear friend tense and made a small hand gesture that settled him back to his place. I could see from his countenance and the tension in his spare frame that he was only a few moments away from imposing his own, not inconsiderable, will on the situation. However I was not a young man, recently bereaved of my last parent, nor a young child, weeping for his mother. I had survived many losses since then, seen more of life than some ever would and weathered more disasters than many would ever face.

"James," I took a deep breath and folded my arms neatly over my chest, "Pay whatever debt it is that you owe, give over whatever object it is that you have purloined, release whatever secret it is that is not yours. I have no money for you, and no intention of getting involved in whatever trouble you are immured in. Dead men need no assistance from the living and this agency has its feet firmly on the ground – no ghosts need apply."

"John… I implore you…" James stretched his hands out, a slight tremor shaking them as he made his entreaty, "I cannot do what you say…"

"You must, brother," I replied firmly, lifting my chin, "I can give you no more. It is time that you shouldered the burdens of a man."

My brothers face crumbled – for a moment it seemed that I had finally reached him – and then he snarled and leapt from the couch, his outstretched hands turning into claws aimed for my neck. My hands flew up to intercept his, though I was poorly balanced to stave off an attack.

Before James could reach me, Holmes was there between us. He held James' wrists in his iron grip, forced his hands up above his head and twisted, forcing my brother to turn about. In a trice Holmes had his arm twisted up behind his back, his other hand in my brother's collar, effecting a stranglehold that choked James words in his throat.

Before I could do more than regain my balance and my wits Holmes was marching James out the door and down the stairs, grim determination in every line of his narrow back. I followed behind, my mind whirling. Should I interfere? It was Holmes' prerogative to eject unwanted persons from his rooms, and I had no particular desire to prolong my interview with my unfortunate brother. I did not wish to see them in conflict with each other, the man who should have been everything to me and the man who had taken his place.

My friend had James to the front door before I could do more than gather my wits and hurry in their wake. Part of me was pleased that James had finally met his match, part of me mortified that Holmes had been forced to step in and protect me from my own blood.

However this ended I did not imagine it would end well. Perhaps a telegram to Lestrade was in order.

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Holmes**

It is not every day that one returns to ones home and finds the world upside down, inside out and thoroughly backwards. Though I am a changeable man by nature, indeed in my profession to remain still and constant would be a distinct handicap, there are certain things that I have come to rely upon over the years, certain touchstones in my life that I can depend upon to the very last.

So it came as no little shock to me to find upon my settee a person that was entirely Not Watson. The face he wore was that of my dearest friend and companion, but the being… or perhaps more romantically, the _soul_ behind those eyes was clearly not. It was akin to walking into the room and finding the furniture nailed to the ceiling.

There was a cold-hearted meanness of spirit in those hazel eyes, where always I was accustomed to generous warmth. Even when angry, My Watson's eyes still held that spark of compassion – indeed it was the warmth of his regard that fed the flames of his anger. That first moment of jarring non-recognition was rapidly followed by the observation of a myriad of details that clearly proved the man in front of me was Not Watson. A wave of fury had me reaching for my weapon, resentment of the easy and painless way in which he used his left arm had me cocking it.

My Watson was no broken hack, but there was a certain effort to his movements, a certain deliberation. Officially he was listed as a cripple by those in charge of Her Majesties forces; indeed he had been forced to relearn how to perform certain movements all over again. I had been privileged to witness his struggles and pleased to give what little aids and comforts he would accept. I had never considered him a cripple at all, but the easy movements of the man in front of me showed what My Watson must have been before Maiwand.

Even with this knowledge, this example in front of me, I would not have changed a single thing about my friend, though if I could have spared him pain I would.

The phrase _'I am not my brothers keeper' _gave me some idea of the situation I had stumbled upon, though I had learned that My Watson's brother had died of the drink some years before. Even now the knowledge caused me some small discomfort. My dear Watson had offered his watch to me in an effort to distract me from taking the next dose of cocaine, a habit that he deplored and had spoken against more than once. My deductions had held my interest above my good sense – after all it was not every day that a man as private as my friend invited you to look into the deeper details of his family life. I fear I caused him no little distress with my unthinking words; certainly he never again offered any other family heirlooms to me for inspection.

Though I was certain that the man before me was not truly a brother to My Watson – I had known cousins to be extremely similar in looks before – I could not quite discount the idea that the man before me had been sent as a distraction while My Watson was waylaid elsewhere. Shooting him out of hand was contra-indicated at this time and so I stayed my hand in favour of awaiting the next episode in this affair. We had only to wait a quarter hour before a key sounded in the lock and Watson's familiar footsteps crossed our threshold.

I have to confess that my voice was not as steady as I would have liked when I called down for him. Indeed, even My Watson noted it, the dear idiot running up the stairs in a reckless disregard for his war-wounded leg. He'd be limping for days and Mrs Hudson would fuss. His expression went from concern to relief, then shock, surprise and finally a painful resignation that boded ill.

I was shocked to discover my friend had a twin. I had always heard that twins were particularly close in their affections, mannerisms and way of thinking. This was clearly not the case here – if there was such a thing as an anti-Watson, then James Watson was clearly it. My comrade squared his shoulders, ignored the imperial gesture that demanded a handshake and came to stand at my side, where he belonged. We were stronger together, indeed there was no one else I would have beside me in my work or leisure hours, not even my own flesh and blood.

"I found him lounging on the settee, claiming to be you," I informed my friend tersely, wanting to see the end of this uncomfortable interview. My Watson would be mortified that I were a witness to whatever little family drama was about to play out – thus I would need to find a way to absent myself from it as soon as was decent, "I could see through the deception at once, of course."

"Of course," he smiled back at me, not at all surprised that I had not been fooled. How many people had confused the two of them during their lives together? I had always hated being compared to Mycroft, something my Boswell had never done in all the time that had passed since his first introduction to the man. Apart from a few hesitant and mannerly questions, My Watson treated me as I was – my own man, not a pale copy of an elder sibling. I was beginning to see that this had not been the case in the Watson household.

"I assume you told Mrs Hudson that you'd forgotten your key or something?" I watched with uneasy concern as my resident physician shifted his weight onto his stronger leg, trying to ease the twinges that the run up the stairs had caused. His brother boasted of his skills in deception and I was unable to contain my snort of disgust. It is no great feat to impersonate the man you were born a copy of… the misplaced pride was almost offensive. Unfortunately I had drawn the attention of both brothers with my ill-timed sound and so I filled my pipe with the intention of leaving the sitting room to My Watson so that he could deal with his brother in private.

That plan was discarded almost at once. James Watson's assertion that he would not speak of family matters in front of strangers was promptly refuted by My Watson's calm reply.

"Holmes is no stranger, and I would not turn him out his own rooms for anyone, not even royalty."

I could not quite restrain the pleased noise I made in response. Of the two of us, it was I who most often insisted over the wishes of clients that Watson's presence was of utmost importance. The mannerly man was loathe to intrude upon others, and his lack of presumption was as endearing as it was refreshing. The very fact that he offered to absent himself from my work even after all these years served to remind me that his assistance was a privilege, not a given. From the small smile he aimed in my direction as I stood puffing on my pipe he had heard me and did not mind. His brother did, but that was all to the good so far as I was concerned.

"Besides," My Watson proceeded to astonish me beyond words with his next speech. It was like watching two evenly matched fighters, circling each other in the ring. Of course, the outcome of that fight was never in doubt in my mind, only the amount of damage that would be caused before the final blow landed, "I don't have a family. You yourself disowned me many years ago, and then," he had to raise his voice slightly to speak over his brother's attempt at interruption, "You died, James. Must I remind you that I signed your death certificate myself? In this case I do not believe any claims to family privacy can be made. If you have come to consult me as a doctor, I will direct you to make an appointment at my surgery. If you are here to consult a detective, address your remarks to the one in the room. Do not, under any circumstances, believe that you are here as my brother: I have no kith nor kin in England."

Even I had to acknowledge the depth of pain those words must have cost my poor friend, though his back was unbowed and his voice steady. My Watson is a gentleman, and to reveal such personal pains in front of an audience would have cost him a great deal. I could not take my eyes from him though, even in the midst of a private battle with some internal demon his true and honest nature shone through. Once again I was forcibly reminded of the true worth of the man with whom I shared my life's work and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he was still at my side after three years of the cruellest deception imaginable. How long would it be before he tired of me as he had of his brothers machinations? I vowed then and there to be a better man to him, to treat him as his excellence demanded.

"My poor John, the years have indeed been harsh with you," James sighed, mock sympathy lining his face. I made an impatient movement, but my Boswell ignored his brother to shoot me a small glance, telling me to be still. I obeyed, wishing to let him concentrate on his brother's next sally, "Do you not think I have regretted my words to you that fateful day – or our separation since? What was I supposed to think when I found my fiancée in your arms?"

A shocking detail indeed and I wondered what he had gained by setting up such a situation… for John Watson was a true gentleman and would rather cut off his own hand than make advances to a woman already spoken for.

"That your plan had finally come off and you could now legitimately break your engagement to the young woman and pursue another, at the same time ensuring I could make no further claims upon your purse whilst I set up in medical practice," my friend stated it baldly, and we had the satisfaction of seeing his look alike discomforted, "Yes, James. I found out about your little scheme. It did not seem worthwhile to confront you on the matter; certainly the girl was better off without you. Any regrets you might have had about our separation undoubtedly stem from the lack of a convenient person to hand whom you could blame any shortcomings upon."

That unfortunately rang of the truth. From the flinch given by our unwanted visitor, he had been hoping that My Watson would not be aware of his machinations. When it came to the motivations of people, Watson's observational skills could rival mine.

"John! That is beyond the pale!" James protested, sinking dramatically onto the settee, "I have grieved over our estrangement for years. Had I not been forced into hiding I would have come to your side at once when you returned so shattered from abroad. It seemed that as the years passed you slowly created a life with which you were content, and only that stayed my hand from revealing my presence to you. Indeed, was the situation not so dire now I would never have risked…" his voice broke off with a choke and he buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with repressed emotion.

I watched as my friend looked at him with a heavy heart, regret and pity written so strongly on his face that for a moment I feared he had been taken in by such blatant acting. I had chided Watson often enough for his lack of skills when it came to duplicity – I found now that I was glad of them if this was what it looked like: the familiar face and form were hatefully unrecognisable in this twin. My Watson sucked in a deep breath with difficulty and then turned to me, reassurance written on his face as he met my eye.

"I'm sorry that you had to see this Holmes," he apologised, a slight smile lifting one corner of his mouth, "It seems that my brother has never grown out of his need to twist and manipulate the emotions of those around him. Most unseemly for a grown man."

I barked in relieved laughter, and we shared a mean satisfaction as James jerked a tear free face from his hands upon the couch, anger and mortification clearly visible. My Watson quirked a brow at him and pulled out his cigarette case, lighting a match and drawing in the steadying comfort of the tobacco. I flung myself into my chair, still chuckling and garnering a dirty look from our uncomfortable guest. That little dig alone was worth dinner at Marcini's.

"How can you be so heartless to your only flesh and blood?" James snarled and I sat up, knowing from his tone and looks that his next sally would be dirty indeed, "You've changed, John. Mother would be so disappointed. You know she had always hoped that you would learn to love me as I do you."

Family always know where the chinks in our armour are. My Watson paled, the small humour in his eye extinguished as surely as a candle in the wind. The blow was a bad one – his face shut down into its most stoic and impassive mask, a look that I had not seen since our early days in Baker Street when the war still preyed upon his sleep.

I had heard enough. For the man to demean his brother in the mans own home, before a stranger no less, was far beyond the pale. I could not bear another moment of it and shifted against the cushions. My Watson made a subtle gesture though, one that begged my patience and peace. I could do no less than to allow him to answer the last blow his brother had dealt him – after all, I would brook no interference in my dealings with my own brother, I could offer him the same courtesy now. My Watson squared his shoulders slightly and raised his chin.

"James," I watched as he took a deep breath and folded his arms neatly over his chest, the movement almost screaming of his irritation and fast dwindling patience, "Pay whatever debt it is that you owe, give over whatever object it is that you have purloined, release whatever secret it is that is not yours. I have no money for you, and no intention in getting involved in whatever trouble you are immured in. Dead men need no assistance from the living and this agency has its feet firmly on the ground – no ghosts need apply."

I almost cheered. Good old Watson! The man was indefatigable! A moment later my humour was destroyed as the wretch dared to attempt to lay hands upon My Watson. It had not escaped me that his mad dash up the stairs in response to my ill-conceived summons had aggravated his old injury, which he was coddling by taking as much weight from it as he stood – his unbalanced stance would make defending himself quite difficult.

The pasty look alike had nothing of Watson's fire or strength and it was a moment's work to turn him about, secure his wrist and collar and march him smartly down the stairs, his poor brother on our heels. The good doctor was kind enough to open the door for me and I thrust the miscreant from the house.

"You will leave this place and never return! Should I ever clap eyes upon you again I shall shoot you like the cur you are!" my not inconsiderable ire fuelled the words I shouted, much to the shock of those in the street and our good landlady. I cared nothing for them though, turning in mortification to the man behind me.

I would _never_ have allowed Watson to interfere in such a manner between Mycroft and myself, and yet here I had as good as banished his own brother, the last of his family, from our rooms. Such discourtesy – to My Watson, not the ineffectual ass that I had just propelled out onto the street – was surely not to be borne.

"Mr Holmes!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed and I swept her and her basket into the hall before shutting the door with a resounding bang.

0o0o0o0

Yes, I know, I repeated the previous chapter from another characters point of view – hope I didn't bore you!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Mrs Hudson**

Martha Hudson had seen it all in her time with Sherlock Holmes as her tenant. How she had managed to keep her hands from his throat and her broom from his backside was a matter between herself and her God. Unfortunately for Mr Holmes it seemed that today was the day that his backside met her broom handle. It was all she could do not to drop her basket of groceries on the footpath as the longsuffering Dr Watson was ejected from his rightful home, while Mr Holmes called him a cur and threatened to shoot him should he ever return.

Well, she'd have something to say about that! Mr Holmes would go before Dr Watson that was for certain!

"Mr Holmes!" she protested and was promptly swept into her own house, the door shut solidly behind her. Mr Holmes took the basket from her hands but before she could give vent to the not inconsiderable feelings that the appalling scene she had just witnessed had stirred, there was a movement by the stairs and poor Dr Watson stepped forward and took her hands.

"My dear Mrs Hudson, I am afraid you have witnessed an unfortunate altercation between Holmes and a relative of mine," the poor man looked as if he'd been caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Mr Holmes himself was in a rare temper, though from the way he was hovering it looked as if he was at least worried about the effect his actions would have on his friend and fellow tenant.

"What on earth is going on?" she spluttered, pressing the doctor's hands between her own. They were cold and the fingers trembled slightly in her grip. Dr Watson was a mannerly man, who hated to be anything less than in control of his own reactions, so that small tremor was the equivalent of a cry of distress. Well, that would not do at all! Mr Holmes may well have gotten the doctor into this state, but Martha Hudson would get him out of it!

"Into the kitchen with you both, and don't you drop that basket young man or there will be no dinner for you tonight!" she used her grip on the doctors hands to draw the man along with her, knowing full well that Dr Watson would never pull away and risk hurting her feelings. Mr Holmes followed along obediently enough, her basket reluctantly in tow.

She got the long suffering doctor into a chair at her well scrubbed table, pushed Mr Holmes into another and pulled the kettle into place on the woodstove. Her tenants sat in silence as she made the tea, taking the time to gather their respective composures.

"Now, then," she put three cups on the table and sat down, "Explain precisely to me what has happened here."

The following explanation was almost a let down. Of course, Dr Watson was terribly embarrassed by the whole thing. Mr Holmes was also upset, but more because he had lost control of himself in such a manner than anything else.

"Well," she sighed when the sordid tale was finished, "What a horrid business."

"Watson, I am most terribly sorry…," Mr Holmes blurted suddenly, "I could not bear to see him lay hands on you, not after all that… it was not my place to eject him in such a fashion…"

Well that explained Mr Holmes' final words to Mr Watson. He was quite protective of his friend, which was one of his very few saving graces. Martha had lost count of the number of times her most troublesome tenant had dashed downstairs to beg a particular meal or bit of comfort for his dear friend.

"Better you than I, Holmes," Dr Watson sighed heavily into the ensuing silence, then graced us both with that crooked smile that spoke of mischief, "If I had got hold of him, he would have been through the window!"

"Not through my window young man!" Martha scolded even as Mr Holmes laughed, throwing his head back and roaring. Dr Watson gave her a small smile and stood, ushering his friend out of her tidy kitchen.

Sanctuary or asylum, the house was never dull with the two of them in it!

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Watson**

It had been only a moment's work to compose and send the telegram that alerted Lestrade to my brother's fresh presence in London. The good Inspector would doubtless be combing his files for recent crimes that would have at least interested James – tomorrow I would go t his office and we would attempt to clear the matter up. I did not want Holmes anywhere near this for now – better to have the comrade who was used to James' petty ways at my side when I dealt with him than one who was ignorant of the mess that had occurred with James' last visit to London.

My poor friend greeted me over the dinner table that evening with a decidedly hesitant manner. I perceived at once what his difficulty was, yet I was uncertain how best to alleviate his concerns. How does one explain to the man that shuns all emotional entanglement the complex and bitter web that revolves around the estrangement of one man from his family? That is not to say that I thought my friend an automaton. Should some misfortune befall his own brother he would not be unmoved; there would be no emotional outburst to be sure, however he would spare nothing to help his brother – of that I had no doubt.

My seeming indifference to my brothers repeated entreaties for help against a threat of violence would appear also appear callous in the extreme. In addition, the attempted attack on myself was one of the few things that would cause Holmes to forget his manners and lay hands upon my brother. Until then he had been content to observe, no doubt drawing his own conclusions as to the source of our conflict.

His response to my brothers attempted attack would be perceived, only on Holmes' part, as a breach of manners of the first water. In my opinion, for what it was worth, Holmes had done nothing wrong. These rooms were his as much as mine; he had the perfect right to eject an unwanted guest. He could not, in all courtesy, tell me to leave and so was forced to remove a man who had entered our rooms under false pretences.

"I believe that Mrs Hudson has managed a very creditable repast this evening despite earlier events," Holmes offered as I sat down opposite him. Such a feeble offering of conversation was so unlike him that I must confess I stared at him in astonishment for quite some moments.

"Err… she has?" was my less than intelligent response. Holmes looked exceedingly uncomfortable and I set my nerves to broach the cause of his discomfort.

"Holmes old chap," I began, "Please do not concern yourself with the unpleasant scene of earlier today. Indeed I must apologise for my brother – he quite forgot himself. It will not happen again – I will see to it that he doesn't further intrude upon Baker Street."

Of course, that meant that I would need to locate James _away_ from Baker Street and deal with whatever problems he was attempting to lay at my feet. My dear friend knew that of course – I had never been able to deceive him for very long. Holmes grimaced and I hurried on, wanting to get this over with. He of course, had never had his personal or past life intrude in such a gauche manner in our rooms. That knowledge made the following apology all the more important… and all the more difficult.

"I would also like to apologise for my part in the sordid business. I should have removed James from our rooms the moment I recognised him. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness and assure you that it shall never happen again. It is my intention to find him tomorrow and see to it that whatever trivial matter has caused him to come here will not give him excuse to come again."

There, I had got it over with. I was well used to apologising for my brother, though it galled me no less as the years passed. I could not help but feel that I had lowered myself in my friends eyes – my poor judgement by allowing James to expose us in front of a man who valued self control and cool reason above all else would inevitably lead to a cooling of my friendship with Holmes.

"Watson, you are being ridiculous," Holmes announced, twitching his fingers impatiently, "I am not as blind as some might think. It is clear to me that you are a cut above the cloth that your brother came from – twin or no."

There was not much I could say in reply to that. I was shocked that he would make such a personal comment, about either myself or my family.

"Further more I forbid you to get involved in whatever trivial business the man was attempting to lay at your feet. If I observed the traces upon his clothes accurately – and I did – then he is involved with a rather nasty gang from Rotherhithe. I myself will look into the matter once our current case is resolved – you are to have nothing to do with it."

"Holmes, there is more to this than a brotherly attempt to manipulate my time and resources," I sighed, fiddling with my napkin. Holmes raised a sceptical eyebrow at me and waved a hand for me to continue. Although my dear friend knew that I had become much closer to the Yard in the three years I believed him to be dead, indeed those ties stood firm in the wake of his return, I had yet to tell him of my dealings with his brother and the shadow organisation that was run from behind the staid façade of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft Holmes was not a man that I found at all palatable company, but I certainly didn't relish the idea of revealing that to his younger brother. Holmes cared for Mycroft in his own way: no one likes to hear a friend's unpleasant opinion of a sibling, deserved or not.

"During the time of your… deception," I could think of no better way to delicately phrase the matter, "James came to London with information that was valuable to certain government agencies. He used my contacts with a particular agency to broker a deal, however at the end of the matter he was taken to be incarcerated in a small facility that is unknown to not only the general public but also to many civil servants. When he eventually escaped from that prison, reports stated that he was not fully sane. Mental acuity aside, I cannot allow him to run around London unchecked. I truly believe that the agency that dealt with him originally would have no scruples murdering him where he stood, something that I would like to avoid if at all possible. Though we are not close, he is my brother and I am reluctant to see him come to harm."

There, I had put it as delicately as I could. Hopefully he would not recognise that it was his brother's agency I was dancing around naming. Holmes leapt from the table, almost knocking his chair back and dashed my hopes with his next words.

"Mycroft locked your brother away on the Island?!"

"With my full consent," I replied, once I had recovered from the shock of seeing him so alarmed and discomforted, "James could not be let to run around with the sensitive information he held. By the time of his escape that information had lost all value and I believe that the search for him was only carried out in a very desultory manner. However, his reappearance in London may be seen by some as a threat."

"As indeed it is," said a voice from the door, startling me into an ill-timed flinch. I turned in my chair, wondering how a man as large as Mycroft Holmes could move so quietly. Once again Jupiter had come to Baker Street.

0o0o0o0


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Sherlock Holmes**

My brother stood in our doorway, his eyes fastened upon me with no little warning in them. It was not a warning that I planned to heed – whatever he was about to tell me not to do would be ignored as a matter of course. The very idea that Watson had been forced to deal with the Diogenes Club with only the paltry help of Lestrade and the Yard chilled me to the bone. My elder brother was a ruthless man, one who saw value only in terms of those men that were of use to him. Watson would have been seen to be of very limited use and therefore any scheme he had participated in that involved Mycroft would have posed no small threat to his continued safety and well being. In short, Watson would have been considered by my elder brother to be 'disposable' for exactly as long as it took Mycroft to realise precisely the true calibre of the man who stood before him.

I had spared no effort in keeping these two men apart. Mycroft posed a very real threat to my dear friend. Watson was a man of many talents and hidden strengths: once Mycroft realised that he would have insisted on using my Boswell for all manner of unspeakable missions. That could not be permitted to happen: the danger of the few cases that I had undertaken on Mycroft's behalf since my arrival in Baker Street – and in the three years I was away from it – could not be allowed to threaten Watson. Additionally, I had not wanted to reveal to Watson what poor company he was keeping. The Holmes brothers were not the best men in the world, descended from country squires or not. Watson's character was of the highest order; he should have been associating with people far better than I. Whatever impulse had led him to befriending me during the course of our initial six months lease was not to be examined too closely, lest the miracle fall apart.

"Mr Holmes," Watson said courteously, standing and placing his napkin on the table, "Do come in."

Mycroft slanted him a very ironic look, as if he knew full well that Watson was merely observing the forms of courtesy. There was little that could deter Mycroft from his decided upon course of action – he came and went as he pleased, when he pleased and courtesy be damned. However my Watson was a gentleman who liked to observe the proprieties and I was certain that my brother had missed the faint tone of sarcasm in the invitation. That did not bode well. If Watson was sufficiently irked to be displaying that deeply buried and jealously guarded vein of sarcasm in his nature then their dealings had not at all been to Watson's tastes. I was beginning to be very alarmed.

"Thank you," Mycroft could lay the sarcasm on with the best of them, though Watson did not betray by look or gesture that he had noticed it. My eldest brother sat upon our settee and I watched as Watson crossed the room to take his usual armchair, waiting until he had settled to join him: choosing to perch on the arm of the already occupied chair and thus partially shield my doctor from the menace opposite him.

"I understand that you are fully informed of James Watson's presence in London," Mycroft stated flatly. His sharp eyes settled on my face and he quirked that little not-smile at me that spoke of superiority and smugness. I detested that smile. Mycroft would not have been at all disconcerted to see the familiar face of a dear friend subtly twisted into strange and unwelcome greed and selfishness. He didn't, as far as I knew, have any dear friends.

"I take it that you have further information for us?" Watson asked gently from the depths of his chair. I shivered a little – oh what a dangerous tone that had been. Mycroft, I was pleased to see, was not unaffected by it either. The momentary expression of unease that had crossed his face was a welcome sight.

"I do," he replied, "Though I am not pleased to be presenting it to you. I was overruled in my wishes and it is not convenient to engage in a power play at this time in order to have my way."

"In other words, you are once more seeking to use me and mine to your advantage," I was horrified to hear Watson say coolly, "I trust you remember our last conversation in this arena? I would remind you that my stance has not changed."

My mind spun as I tried to fathom exactly what it was that Watson was implying. He was threatening my brother, of that I had no doubt, over the treatment and safety of those that he considered to be in his realm of responsibility, if not affections. They had evidently had this conversation before: that James Watson held a higher place in John Watson's affections than I had thought was an unwelcome piece of news.

"You insist on protecting your brother?" Mycroft sounded just as astonished as I was.

"I have more than one," Watson laid his hand lightly on my back, turning the world on its ear with one simple statement. His voice took on an impatient and imperious tone; one which I can guarantee Mycroft had not expected to hear from my dearest friend, "Come sir, you prevaricate. What is it you want from us?"

"Very well," Mycroft gave me a look that promised we would be speaking later, "James Watson is once again in possession of information that we require. He is attempting to broker said information, for which a number of interested parties have bid. It is essential that we win the bid, by whatever means necessary. He is less than stable, less than trustworthy and less than cunning. I felt it would be to our advantage to… enlist your aid in this matter. My brother need not be involved, naturally."

"Quite," Watson agreed blandly. Only I who knew him so well could hear the undercurrent of amusement in his voice. He knew as well as I did that I would sooner burn my Strad than allow him to enter into such an intrigue alone.

"Of course, there would be a full briefing on the matter," Mycroft added, "Perhaps at the club?"

"Perhaps not," I asserted myself, angry that my brother would think to exclude me from the matter with such a high handed manner. I folded my arms and glared down my not inconsiderable nose at him, intimating that he had best get on with it.

"Sherlock, if you would give us the room?" Mycroft was not to be deterred so easily. Before I could tell him what I thought of his invitation, my Watson added his own request to the conversation.

"It would be for the best, dear chap," he murmured, the fingers that still rested on my back tapping twice before withdrawing, something that my brother had not seen. I twisted to glare at my friend and then rose in a huff, scowling at them both and stomping from the room. The moment the door was shut behind me I was on the move to the listening post we had established upstairs many years ago. Mycroft didn't know of it and Watson had been careful to never write of it in his stories.

"… Surprised that he gave way so quickly," Mycroft sounded suspicious and I prayed that Watson would not try to act his way out of the difficulty. My brother was no less astute than I when it came to detecting deception and Watson was no actor.

"This afternoon's little scene between our respective brothers did not… play out well. Holmes forbade James from ever returning to Baker Street – in fact he threatened to shoot him on sight – and as such is somewhat unsettled at the moment. He is not entirely certain if I have condoned his treatment of my brother or not, thus his acquiescence to my request," Watson's words were the exact truth and yet couched in such a way that one who was unfamiliar with him would not realise that he was presenting only the bare surface of matters.

"I see," Mycroft sounded amused, "He always did let his emotions overrule his common sense."

"To the matter at hand – it won't be long before he decides to burst back in here," Watson suggested, "As it is you've condemned me to weeks of ill feeling."

"Ah I remember it well – Sherlock always could hold a grudge with the best of them," Mycroft had the gall to sound amused, and I clenched my fists. We'd see who bore the grudges when this matter was over!

"James is involved with a gang from Rotherhithe," Mycroft condescended to reiterate, "They primarily made their income by stealing luggage. A few weeks ago, they were fortunate enough to lift the luggage of a travelling diplomat from a train in Piccadilly. Concealed within this luggage were several rather sensitive documents. Your brother had been acting as the go-between for the gang and several 'fences' of purloined goods – his aristocratic bearing gave an illusion of respectability that the gang desired – and discovered the documents for himself. Of all the gang, James had the literacy skills to understand what the documents were saying and the political knowledge to know who would be the most interested in the contents. He promptly left with the documents and is now attempting to broker them on the open market."

It was a simple enough political intrigue, how ghastly and dull. Had Watson's brother not been involved I would have burst back into the room and demanded Mycroft leave at once. As it was we would have to work quickly if we were to resolve this before Mycroft did any damage to my Watson.

"You want the documents back," Watson's voice was cool and calm, "What of James?"

"I would prefer he was returned to the Island," Mycroft replied, "Or killed. Either way, I want him removed from the picture. You may choose which."

I nearly choked. What a monstrous thing to say to Watson! To ask him to choose his brothers freedom over his life was so far beyond the pale that I could not bear to imagine what my dear friend was thinking now! And how would Mycroft's words reflect upon me? Would my dearest friend finally realise the stamp of man he had been associating with these last long years? We had only just recovered from my three years of deception – that alone would have been enough to kill the kind regard of most. That Watson had not repudiated me was a bewildering piece of good fortune that I dared not examine too closely lest it fall apart beneath my eyes.

"I will see to James," Watson's voice had turned iron hard, "You need not concern yourself with him or this matter any further. In fact I do not expect to see you or any of your agents again in relation to this."

I would have given anything to see his face then! To be able to read what his intent was and what Mycroft's reaction to that had been!

"As you wish," Mycroft sounded amused, "Good evening Doctor. I wish you joy of Sherlock's mood."

0o0o0o0

Lol!!!


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Watson**

Holmes expression upon his return to the sitting room was something of a mixed bag. I had no doubt that Mycroft Holmes had been unaware of our listening post, though I was not certain the secret would remain between us for long if my friends' expression was anything to go by. He was not best pleased, to put it mildly. I had not been unaware that he had placed himself physically between myself and his brother, a protective gesture that spoke volumes. Holmes had always been reluctant to include me upon any little business that his brother had put our way, something I had initially put down to a reluctance to subjecting me to his brothers impatience with those who were not his intellectual or social equal – which was quite a long list. Then I had dealings of my own with Mycroft Holmes while his brother was pretending to be dead; I became aware that the elder Holmes was not a man to trifle with.

In addition to this, he had heard me threaten his elder brother in relation to the case, not to mention Mycroft's attempt to engage me as an assassin against my own flesh and blood. I was not entirely sure who had come out the worst in that little interview: once again I reflected that only time would tell if our friendship would survive this case.

"We need to find James and this information," I said heavily, pushing my worries aside for now, "If we are to get him out of this with his life, then the matter will need to be resolved sooner rather than later."

"Where would you expect to find him?" Holmes mercifully went along with my wishes, keeping his focus to the case and not my relationship with his brother.

"Gambling is his main weakness," I replied, knowing better than to attempt to salvage any measure of dignity out of this, "He would be gambling somewhere, possibly where he would be able to make the right contacts to sell his information. He is not entirely unfamiliar with London's card establishments."

"Does James confine his gambling to cards?" the question was cool and collected. It was impossible to read his thoughts behind that thinking façade.

"Yes: in fact, he prefers the upper class establishments to the lower," I nodded. Holmes tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and then nodded to himself.

"He will be expecting us," he murmured almost to himself, "Watson, how acute is he?"

"I doubt that he would notice you in disguise, if that is what you mean," I thought carefully for a moment, "I doubt that he would trust any newcomer to his circle though, especially after tonight. I've always found it best to arrive armed, looking like myself and simply accuse him of cheating before hauling him out of whatever club he is in. Our shared appearance gives me an edge – it shocks those he is with, especially if they've been playing for a while and are drink fuddled."

I reflected that we had played that scene out many a time. Even Lestrade had commented upon it once, relying upon our friendship to do so. Of course we _had_ thrown James out of Baker Street only hours ago, informing him that we would not assist him with his situation in no uncertain terms. Any move to find him now would be seen as a weakness. James was always more difficult to deal with if he thought he was in the position of power.

Holmes ghosted a hand over my shoulder, making me glance up at him. He appeared his usual cool self, but his eyes were uncertain.

"I am sorry Holmes," I sighed, "I do not think we could retrieve him successfully tonight, even if you had deduced which club he was in. James would see that as a change of heart on our side, and he would be impossible to deal with. Better that we run him to ground tomorrow when he's had time to give it up as a lost cause. Or even better still – run him to ground and then simply burgle his rooms, where ever they might be."

I did not like having to say it, but James was a complicated person, contrary as any cross grained cat and determined to have his own way at all costs. We would need to deal with him on our terms not his if we were to succeed in getting the documents Mycroft Holmes wanted; how I was yet to keep my ungrateful wretch of a brother alive was another matter. He would not return to the Island willingly, would not trust me to handle his travel arrangements again… and yet I could not stand by and see him killed out of hand.

"Watson, you are quite done in, old chap," Holmes was using the tone that he thought was especially soothing. I only heard it when I was quite unwell or had returned to our room unexpectedly injured. Holmes had no idea how annoying that particular tone was from him, what he meant as concern came across as patronising, each time I heard it I had to seal my mouth against chiding him for it.

"Perhaps you should retire," the tone continued, "We will extract James from his troubles in the morning."

"Very well," I conceded, though I had no intention of going to sleep, "I will see you in the morning."

I would wait until he was certain I was asleep and then follow him when he slipped out. I know my Holmes; the man would delight in presenting the entire solution to me over breakfast tomorrow. Unfortunately James had a stubborn streak a mile wide and his instincts for self preservation were oddly skewed. Holmes would need back up, no matter what he thought.

0o0o0o0


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Holmes**

My poor friend paced for an hour before retiring. I waited another hour before gathering the tools I believed I would need to locate James Watson and his cache of documents. It was a moment's work to slip through the kitchen and out the back gate into the mews behind the house. From there I struck out for the more fashionable part of London and its teeming clubs and gambling tables. Watson had not liked betraying the habits of his brother to me – he was worried that by exposing his family to my scrutiny he would lower himself in my opinion.

That was untrue. I could only be ever more grateful for the many complicated and subtle facets of John Watson. His was a character of the highest rank. It was far more likely that he would realise the character of the Holmes brothers was less than exalted, leading to a cooling of our friendship. Mycroft had often maintained that we were the superior in breeding and intellect; I knew him to be wrong.

By dint of slipping in while the concierge was busy and listening to the servants as much as the patrons, it took me only two hours to locate James Watson. He was cheating at poker, though his companions were far too drunk at this late stage of the evening to properly realise. James affected a greater degree of intoxication than he was truly experiencing, which also served to allay their suspicions. It was a masterful performance in some aspects – I had seen my Watson read the character of a man and bend himself to fit the others preferred mode of social interaction in a similar, though less harmful, fashion. It was what made him such an able practitioner – capable of dealing with both the highest and lowest in the land with equal dignity and courtesy. To see it twisted to such ugly ends here firmed my resolve that my Watson not learn to deceive others as well as I did. Of the two of us my character was blacker – and would remain that way or I'd know the reason why! With the living embodiment of a Watson Gone Wrong before me I could not countenance my Watson following the same path.

Once I had James whereabouts well established I set about making myself familiar with the layout of the club. I had never had reason to interest myself in this particular ring of gamblers before – it was too rich for John Watson's occasional flutters and too poor for Moriarty or Moran – and so I set about learning the layout of the rooms, the location of the exits and various hiding places. This was very interesting insofar as it distracted me from the less than desirable situation our agency now found itself in, as well as affording me some insight into the mindset of the men who ran and operated the club.

James did not have rooms here, which was inconvenient. However, it was a small task to follow him from the gambling tables to the street; from there it was but a short journey to the hotel where he was staying. The man had no idea that he was being followed by myself… or his brother, who I spotted quite easily only yards from the club. It was the work of a moment to reach Watson's position as James entered his hotel.

"Hallo Holmes," Watson sounded amused. Certainly he wasn't surprised that I had discovered his presence so quickly. I, of course, would never admit that I had fallen for his deception in Baker Street; "Did you learn anything in the club?"

"Merely that the proprietors are quite aware of your brothers cheating ways and that they take a percentage of those winnings each night in exchange for their silence," I replied, trying to find a way to say all that I wanted without causing a breach in our friendship. 'I thought you trusted me' and 'your brother is quite a piece of work' were two things that hovered on my lips – the first a blow to my pride, the second a blow to Watson's.

"I didn't trust James not to have someone watching him as a back-up," Watson seemed to have heard my thoughts in any case, "And forgive me for lying to you old chap, but I could not bear to see you hurt in this case. Sadly, James Watson is a selfish cad at the best of times and wouldn't think twice… wait…"

I too had spotted the shadow on the roof of the hotel. It was a moment's work to deduce that this was not the back up that Watson had spoken of and to deduce how the man had gotten to the roof. I squeezed my dear friends arm and we split from each other, moving towards the hotel with no further words needed.

As Watson entered the hotel I scaled the drainpipes to the roof, using the already established footholds. These men were professionals – they had brought spikes to drive into the wall to make it easier to ascend or descend swiftly. I spent a few minutes knocking the upper most spikes free and pocketing them before completing my climb, arriving at the top in time to see a second man heading quickly across to join his companion. As he was not looking back, I surmised he had not heard me and thus took a few moments to check the roof closest to the drainpipe.

It was not hard to locate the rope they intended to utilise whilst lowering James' body to ground level which alerted me to the fact that they intended to either drug or incapacitate their quarry. I took a moment to tie my handkerchief over my mouth and nose and then hurried soundlessly to the spot where our quarry had lowered themselves, using more rope, to the balcony of the room that housed James Watson. A cautious peek, utilising a hand mirror, showed the men in the act of forcing the window. As I watched they entered the room soundlessly, concealing themselves in the generous drapes. Once I was sure that they would not notice I pulled their rope up and made ready to begin my own, more arduous, descent.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Watson**

It was not difficult to trick the man behind the desk – who was sipping on the flask concealed in his jacket more often than his liver felt was strictly prudent – into gaining James' room number. As much as I detested behaving in such a patronising, supercilious and high handed manner, it had to be said that the right attitude went a long way to accomplishing ones task quickly. I strolled for as long as I was in sight of the lobby and then ran as quietly up the stairs as I could. Holmes would have said it was not quiet enough, but the man had the reflexes of a feral cat and the slightest air current was enough to alert him to his quarries presence when he was on the hunt.

I did not bother wasting time knocking on the door – I had the key out of the lock and onto the end of my muffler in a trice: the door unlocked and myself within only moments later. I made sure to duck low and to the left quickly to avoid James' derringer, taking shelter behind a convenient armoire.

"It's me James, put the gun down and get over here," I did not bother with the usual round of 'niceties' that my brother liked to insist on, "There are men on the roof, aiming for your balcony."

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, John?" James muttered as he crossed the sumptuous suite towards me, hooking up his coat and jacket as he did. I wondered for a moment who was paying for such luxurious rooms – as James certainly wasn't – then dismissed the notion in order to concentrate better on the matter at hand.

"Are the papers here? You'll need to retrieve them before we leave," I didn't bother to dignify the question with an answer, "And before you say it, no this is not a ploy to trick you into giving up the papers. We were contacted by Mycroft Holmes this afternoon, who laid as much of the matter as he thought we needed to know before us. Holmes is on the roof to trap your attackers and I am here to get you out… again."

James scowled, shrugging into his clothes and coming to crouch beside me with ill-tempered grace. I tucked him into better shelter and primed my own weapon, the trusty service revolver that had seen me through so much, both overseas and in London. There was a cold draught around my ankles and I aimed carefully at the curtains, sure that the men on the roof had entered through the balcony window, though the curtains had not stirred at all.

The curtains shifted and something flew out. I clapped a hand over my nose and mouth, dragging my muffler up with it to form a better barrier, holding my breath as whatever it was shattered over the rug. Behind me James exclaimed in surprise and began coughing and spluttering. I didn't wait for the drug to take full effect; instead I grabbed my brother and thrust him at the door, which he retained just enough sense to open before falling unconscious in the hallway. I remained under cover, using him as a stalking horse for the men who were attempting to abduct him.

At the sound of the door the curtains billowed again and two heavily muffled men emerged from behind them, evidently intent on stopping their quarry from escaping. The weapons in their hands left me in no doubt that they did not intend to handle James gently: coupled with the fumes of the drug in the room, I felt no compunction in shooting the knife out of one mans hand and the bat out of the other before winging the closest, dropping him to the carpet.

Holmes slipped in through the curtains, his kerchief tied over his nose and mouth, as the second man reached me. I was loathe to shoot him – at this range the wound would be much more serious – and so I ducked the blow headed my way and lurched to the side, regaining my feet with difficulty and straining for air. My muffler was not quite thick enough and the tiny gasp I did take in was enough to make my senses reel for a moment.

Fortunately Holmes had the fellow by the collar and his head almost run through the wall in a trice. I staggered to the window and flung the curtains and glass wide, taking a cleansing deep breath and securing my muffler more firmly about my face. As I turned I saw that Holmes had pulled our adversaries mufflers from their faces, giving them the full benefit of the tainted air, and that James was beginning to stir in the hallway. I strode back across the room and pulled my brother inside, shutting the door on the awakening hotel and dousing most of the lights in the room. As Holmes rummaged our captives for weapons I fitted a rough dressing to the man I had winged with his own muffler.

James was once more unconscious, something that suited me for now. We had several things to do before attempting to deal with him again; his lack of consciousness would make those tasks easier.

"James did not attempt to collect anything other than his coat and jacket," I said in an undertone to Holmes, "And I wired Lestrade this afternoon – he's on the alert for something like this occurring."

"Play the part of your brother and insist that he be sent for," Holmes muttered back, though he slanted a glance at me that said we'd be speaking later, "I'll search the rooms while we're waiting."

"He can't be taken into custody, Holmes," I gripped my dear friend's arm, "I will not send him back into Mycroft's clutches to be killed."

I disliked saying it, disliked showing all too clearly what I thought of Mycroft Holmes and his shadow organisation, but things were moving too quickly for pretty manners now. I would deal with the fallout later.

"He won't be," Holmes replied, shooting me an entirely transparent look. For my sake, Holmes would oppose his brother – the knowledge lightened my heart considerably. I was somewhat humbled – I should never have doubted the strength of his regard no matter how many brothers were involved in the matter, "I intend to get him to the Continent, provided we can recover the papers."

I nodded and went to the door, yanking it open and stepping through even as I returned my muffler to its usual state. There were a number of men milling about outside, which would allow me to establish a fictitious story quickly and send for Lestrade.

0o0o0o0


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Lestrade**

I cannot say that the late night – or rather, early morning – summons was unexpected. The unwelcome news that James Watson was once more in town and up to his old tricks had been delivered to my desk late in the afternoon, prompting me to send a wire home to the missus to ensure that she did not wait supper for me. The records showed a number of thefts and intrigues that would interest James Watson, which I gathered together in my own notes to peruse with his brother John.

I spared a thought to wonder what Mr Holmes was making of the matter – I would be sure to enquire how he'd taken it this coming Friday when I met John for the customary ale and meal – before going carefully over my iron and alerting several key constables to be on the lookout for unusual activity in certain quarters.

The hotel was still astir when I arrived and I was quickly directed to James Watson's room by an increasingly irate night manager. There was a familiar constable on the door who twitched me a _highly_ amused smile. By this I took it that John was pretending to be his brother again – something that had become something of a party trick and never failed to amuse the constables, though they had always thought that Watson was emulating a minor peer of the realm. From other subtle signals I pulled my muffler over my mouth and nose before entering.

"Ah Lestrade," Holmes very nearly pounced upon me as I entered the door. He was wound a lot tighter than was his wont, which showed that the situation was not at all to his liking, and no wonder, "We need to transport these two men to the cells for attempted kidnapping and transport their target…"

"Hallo, Mr Holmes," I interrupted, knowing that if I didn't I'd be ejected from the room summarily as an errand boy. With James Watson involved in the matter I had no intention of leaving John's side until was certain that things would be resolved satisfactorily, "What precisely is the taint in the air?"

"A rather nasty combination of soporifics," John Watson answered from where he was searching through a trunk, pulling out several concealed compartments as he did, "From the amount of glass on the rug, the reactions of our captives and the continued taint in the air I estimate that the room will be clear in another hour or so – until then, keep your muffler well wrapped around your nose and mouth."

"Shall do," I replied, making note of the time. We'd let the constables in when the air was breathable, which would give us longer to locate whatever it was that we were looking for and come up with a plan to save the wretches hide again. He wasn't worth his brother's time, but John Watson would sooner walk off a bridge with lead in his pockets than neglect his familial duties, "Have you found whatever it is that James has stolen this time?"

From Mr Holmes reaction he was not expecting me to know anything at all about the matter, though surely Watson had told him that he'd wired me earlier. As always, the consulting detective's low opinion rankled with me, but I put it aside. John Watson had always been under the greatest amount of strain when attempting to keep his family from inconveniencing others – he didn't need his friends at cross purposes as well.

"It's more likely that he's stolen something if your brother is involved, Mr Holmes, secrets would be my guess," I answered the look with a shrug, "And so?"

"The documents we were looking for were sewn into his jacket and coat," Mr Holmes replied, gesturing to the dismembered articles that had been thrown over the nearest chair, "However Watson feels that his brother should finance his own travels and so we are looking for his winnings."

"Fair enough," I agreed, "And how do we get him safely onto those travels?"

As I asked I bent to double check the fastenings on all three men laid out on the carpet – it seemed that Mr Holmes trusted James Watson as much as I did, which was not at all – and then straightened to look at the mess these two had made of the room. It was clear that they'd looked in the more obvious places and that Mr Holmes was now looking in the unusual ones. I personally didn't credit James with enough intelligence for that – of the two of them, John Watson had inherited the family brains – but I moved to examine the underside of the grouping of armchairs while I waited for an answer.

"Holmes has a contact at the docks," Watson said dryly, "I wouldn't inquire further, old friend."

This meant that their plan was illegal and Watson was trying to shield my badge. There were times that I envied them the freedom they had when dealing with the greyer areas of the law: I wasn't sure that now was one of those times.

I heaved a long suffering sigh and got a flash of a grin – it was in the eyes – from John. I straightened from my fruitless inspection and went to look at the man lying on the carpet. He looked so like my friend that I shivered in premonition before a rather delicious idea came to me. James Watson had affected the same hairstyle and moustache as his brother, doubtless so he could assume his twins identity at will. I wasn't entirely sure if John saw it for the manipulation that it was, but I could at least do something about it while the man was unconscious.

"He'll need to be disguised," I announced, capturing the attention of the eccentric genius currently examining the pelmet by the window, "If you two try to ship him out looking like this people will wonder why Mr Holmes has turned on Dr Watson. Can't have that, now, can we?"

"Not at all," Holmes agreed while John looked over in alarm, "However we are somewhat limited in what we can do – the changes will need to be permanent in some form or another."

"Now steady on you two…" John started, then gave it up for a lost cause as Mr Holmes and I - in the first, last and only moment of instantaneous and duplicitous accord we would ever experience – gave him looks of such outstanding innocence that he knew better than to continue with whatever protest he was about to come up with.

While he returned his attention to the trunk – with the air of a man who washed his hands of the business – I nipped into the bathroom for the expensive toilette kit that James had laid out on the counter.

While Mr Holmes and I saw to James Watson's disguise his brother continued to disinter a variety of unusual and interesting objects from the hidden compartments contained within the three trunks in the room. It seemed that James Watson had indeed been involved in the luggage thievery gang – and that he had kept some of the better pieces for himself.

"Got it," Watson grunted as Holmes and I stepped back, quite pleased with ourselves and our efforts. It certainly was a startling change, "Bottom of the trunk again, his ingenuity leaves something to be … good Lord!"

James Watson sans moustache and with closely cropped hair looked very different to the well groomed John Watson beside us. Watson shook his head and snickered into his muffler after a moment, muttering about needing to sleep with his door locked from now on. Holmes clapped him on the shoulder and went to examine the pile of purloined goods by the trunks.

A glance at my watch showed that we had ten minutes left before the air would be clear enough to bring the constables in. There was time enough to receive the final details of the plan that Mr Holmes had been concocting.

0o0o0o0


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Watson**

Lestrade's not-so-innocent look to my mutter of 'you enjoyed that' fooled no one. Holmes had much better facial control but far less credibility with me as he hadn't made any real effort to disguise his gleeful tone whilst directing Lestrade. James would not be impressed with the new look, but he would be alive and that was all that mattered in the long run.

Getting him out of the hotel and to the docks was something of an anticlimax. After the action of the evening, loading my peaceably slumbering brother onto a ship was very little work. His ill-gotten gains were sufficient to finance his little trip aboard and I had replaced the false bottom with the rest of his winnings and a short note urging him to stay well clear of England for a few years if he knew what was good for him. It was a pity – in a spiteful little brotherish manner – that I would not witness his reaction to the 'disguise' that Holmes and Lestrade had given him, but I was accustomed to being disappointed where my brother was concerned.

Holmes had promised Lestrade assistance in rounding up the rest of the Rotherhithe gang – it was essential in some ways to maintaining the cover story that we circulated upon the arrest of James' attackers. That would take place upon the morrow, which was fast coming upon us. I had suggested that Lestrade go home and get some well deserved rest, but was met with such fierce opposition to the idea that it had been withdrawn post-haste.

Thus I was accompanied by both Lestrade and Holmes as I walked once more into the Diogenes Club.

In a way, and I would never dare to tell them this, my companions were very similar in their behaviours when confronted with snobbery, elitism and patronising authority figures. Lestrade sniffed down his nose at the doormen that stood stolidly at their post and Holmes spoke as rudely as he could. The concierge was condescended blatantly to by Holmes while Lestrade affected an impatient air with the man. The secretary sat neatly at his post never knew what hit him as my friends breezed past and I trailed into Mycroft's office feeling much as a nanny with two high spirited charges at the zoo.

Mycroft Holmes did not seem at all pleased to be woken at such an early hour. He was less pleased with his younger brother's manner of speech and Lestrade's presence seemed an actual affront. The retrieved documents barely rated a second glance, though I had no doubt that he had catalogued them carefully the moment Holmes flung them on his immaculate desk.

"I suppose the matter is resolved then. When shall I retrieve James Watson?" Mycroft sighed at length, "Do put that paper weight down Sherlock."

"You shall not," I spoke before Holmes could; "He is headed for abroad and will remain there."

"Oh? What guarantees can you offer to this?" Mycroft looked past my friends to where I stood, the first time he had acknowledged my presence. He did prefer to overlook me when he could, a left over from our past conflicts.

"My word."

Silence, thick and cloying descended upon us. From the flicker of the grey eyes I could see that Mr Holmes was remembering what had happened the last time I had given him my word. I bore his gaze easily, my eyes meeting his with assurance and resolve. For a moment we were the only two people present as he tested me once more and found me resilient. I would not give James up to him, nor would I compromise the men that I had accompanied here this night.

"Very well," he grunted finally, "I take it that you will be dealing with the luggage thieves Lestrade, Sherlock? Then our meeting is at an end, gentlemen."

I stepped to one side and ushered my friends out first. As the door closed behind me I could feel Mycroft's gaze upon my back like a gun sight.

0o0o0o0

Time to hear from Mrs Hudson again!


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer – I do not own Holmes or Watson or either James Watson. Jimmy boy was the invention of Bartimus Crotchety, who allowed me to borrow him for a plot bunny that attacked me, dragged me to the floor and cavorted in an unseemly manner. Thanks Barty!

AN – This is probably better classified as an AU of an AU – now that Bartimus has put out his own follow up story about the first meeting of Holmes and James.

Warnings – James Watson … 'nuff said!

**The Startling Adventure of the Doctors Look Alike**

**Mrs Hudson**

As she mounted the stairs with the breakfast tray there was a scrape in the lock and Mr Holmes and Dr Watson tumbled in, accompanied by that long suffering Inspector Lestrade. She hadn't heard either man leave after she'd locked up last night, but that was a small matter in the grand scheme of things. At least this time they had remembered their keys – Martha had caught Mr Holmes picking her lock more than once.

"Good morning gentlemen," she hadn't been a mother for nothing, and she had a reputation for equanimity in the face of the outré to uphold, "I take it the Inspector is staying for breakfast?"

"Mrs Hudson, you're a gem!" Mr Holmes beamed, "He is indeed staying. I could not in good conscience to his lady wife drag him out so early without at the least offering him breakfast!"

Which meant that they'd been out all night and were successful in their endeavours so far… whatever it was her lodgers were up to they hadn't quite finished with it yet. Mentally tallying the well stocked drawer of bandages and other such necessities Martha Hudson preceded them up the stairs while Dr Watson ducked into her kitchen to fetch another place setting for the Inspector.

"Wash up before you sit at my table young man," she admonished Mr Holmes as he reached for his pipe and the beastly shag in the slipper.

"Holmes, are you sure that Watson is safe?" the Inspector spoke in a hurried tone, slanting an apologetic glance at Martha for speaking over her as he did. Evidently the trouble stirred by his brother's unexpected and unwelcome visit had not yet dissipated. Martha Hudson was a lady, and ladies don't eavesdrop, or so she reminded herself as she set the table quietly, limiting the noise in order to hear better.

"James Watson is only safe insofar as he stays away from England. In time his misdeeds will be forgotten, I am certain of that. He is an opportunist and a cad, not a major player in the international scene," Mr Holmes sighed, "As for _our_ Watson… he will be as safe as I can make him."

The Inspector looked as if he wanted to say more, because even Martha Hudson knew that no one could make Dr John Watson safe unless he wished it, but was thwarted by the limping tread upon the stairs. The Inspector disappeared in the direction of the bathroom and Mr Holmes went to his own room to clean up. The room was empty by the time the poor doctor reached it, though he was not at all taken in if the glint in his eyes was anything to go by.

"I'll bring up more toast directly, doctor," Martha beamed at him as he laid out the setting himself, "Sit you down and start. The other two will be along in a moment."

"You're a treasure, Mrs Hudson," the tired doctor allowed her to put him in his normal chair and uncover the plate of eggs, "We'd be lost without you."

"Indeed you would, sir," Martha collected her tray and sailed out the door, already composing a list of precautions to place around the house in case of intruders or other such trouble.

It seemed that today the house was more likely to be a sanctuary than an asylum… taking those two young men on as tenants certainly kept her young!

**0o0o0 END 0o0o0**

(Yes I mean it)

AN – I've left several threads unresolved, not because I'm planning a sequel or anything, but because I was hoping to get Bartimus to give us more in this series (pester him for a part 6 today!!!!)

And I hope this meets with your approval Barty!


End file.
